The calendar summer is in its back third, and the San Francisco summer is about to start. I’m in SFO, contemplating the steel fork and plastic knife to one side, and the single mother with two daughters in tow to the other. The waitress at the restaurant is like the Chinese mother I never had—advising me against the english muffin, a “rip-off” at $2. She just dropped off my breakfast, simulacra of scrambled eggs in uniform gold and blessedly fried bacon (and wheat toast).
In 5 hours I’ll be in Hawaii; my fourth trip in four years, the second wedding in less than a year, and the second time I’ve been to Oahu. At 10 days, this will be the longest trip. I’m stoked.
Things I hope to do while away: circumnavigate Oahu on a bicycle, hike to the crest of a windward mountain, learn to surf, read some good books, spend time with my friends—driving around the island top down, listening to music, doing lots of nothing.
Things I hope happen while I’m away: Obama announces a running mate—preferably a woman, preferably a strong governor, and Yelle tickets go on sale.
Edit: Mom just refilled my coffee.